


What's Left Behind

by ForestIyari



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestIyari/pseuds/ForestIyari
Summary: Emma Swan is good at running- running towards danger and away from feelings.  But on her return to Storybrooke she can’t run from the fact she’s pregnant with Walsh’s child, she really must make a decision on what she’s going to do and who she can trust to support her through it.





	What's Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Abortion
> 
> Please note the rating and trigger warning included with this fic. This story contains abortion- not mentions of abortion or discussion of abortion but an actual abortion, from discussion to decision to processes to execution. It is not a pro-abortion story but it is a pro-choice story. If this is not something you want to read I will take no offence at you ignoring it. If you’re on the fence about wanting to read this then I would err on the side of caution and tell you not to read it. This is a graphic story of an ugly procedure. I would advise anyone that has had an abortion, miscarriage or pregnancy to think twice about reading any further. 
> 
> Again: This story contains graphic depictions of a medical procedure
> 
> For those who are still reading this far there is a marked break included where things go from “graphic” to “extremely graphic”. If you are already struggling to read before this marked break then I would advise skipping the sections between the ### however, please note that the break was added in after the story was written and there’s a chance that skipping over this scene will remove some context.
> 
>  
> 
> AN: I want to extend a huge thank you to everyone that’s been involved in this project. I have been so lucky to have the wonderful @blessed-but-distressed working as my beta and my artist @slow-smiles has produced the most amazing piece below. I have made some great friends and behind the scene cheerleaders while writing this. Thank you to everyone that’s offered support and advice where needed.
> 
> So, after the longest set of notes in the worlds ever:

“You were going to marry someone?”  David’s voice sounds about to break, his eyes filling with too many emotions for Emma to get a handle on.  She doesn’t want to anyway.  She turns away from David, shooting Hook a disapproving glare for having let  _ that _ slip before focusing her attention on Robin and his gang.  Of merry men.  Yeah, them.

 

She’d spent the past three days avoiding thinking about Walsh.  His soft hair and kind eyes; the way he’d engage with whatever Henry had decided was the current “in” thing, and the way he understood her crazy schedule.  Of course, now she knows it was all an act.  He wasn’t the perfectly patient boyfriend he’d pretended to be, but rather a man who had engaged her in a relationship under the threat of monkey-hood.

 

Engaged.

 

There was a good reason she hadn’t accepted his proposal.  It wasn’t that she didn’t love him- she did… or she had… But he hadn’t been in possession of all the facts when he’d asked.

 

She dismisses the men before beginning the walk back to town on her own.  David makes noises about driving her, but she knows he’s  needed more in the search for Little John, so she shoots down his offer.  The road back to town isn’t long but she savours the time alone- she hasn’t had a chance to breathe freely since Hook showed up on her doorstep in New York, what with the awkward eight hour drive and family reunions she’s been hiding from Henry.  And now there’s a new crisis.  People being snatched up by flying monkeys.

 

The air is chilled but fresh as she continues and she’s relieved- any smells that are too strong have been affecting her lately and she’s feeling nauseous enough at the idea of confronting Regina in front of the town without the added stimuli of pine and fern.

She also needs to think- away from David and his kicked-puppy eyes and Hook and his expectations, away from Henry and his questioning glances and Regina and her betrayed tone.  But mostly away from Mary Margaret.

She’s missed her mother, her friend, she realises.  Since her memories have returned she dwells mostly on what it had felt like, having to drive away from the family she’d finally found.  But now her mother is huge and dressed in maternity clothes and nattering away about pregnancy and babies and Emma can’t listen to that.

She’s very deliberately spent the last two months avoiding anything to do with babies.

Ever since she realised her period was almost three weeks late and had forced herself to buy a test.

Because Emma Swan is pregnant and that’s practically the only thing that Emma Swan cannot physically run from.

But she’ll bury her head in the sand for as long as possible.

**

“Were you considering it?  His proposal?”  It’s her own fault, she knows this- if she hadn’t been so on edge about David running off to see the midwife she wouldn’t have been in a mood that demanded she push Hook to the edge.

“Does it matter?”  She deflects.  All she wants is to push him away- to get him angry enough that he gives up on her just like everyone else did prior to Storybrooke.  It was her tried and tested defense mechanism and for some reason he’s immune to it.

“Humour me,” he says and she can’t help but seethe at his gentle prodding.  None of this is fair and she doesn’t understand why Hook can’t just shut up about it- why he has to be quite so indignant on her behalf and offended on his own- why he has to make her confront the thoughts running around in her head.  And why he has to stand quite so close and why she doesn’t step back.

“Yes, okay?”  Maybe if she admits to her feelings he’ll be dissuaded.  “I was in love, so of course I was considering it.”  She thinks back to her walk home that night- the images that had floated through her head of being married to Walsh, of them moving to a larger apartment with an outdoor area- somewhere for him and Henry to play ball on the weekends while she watched on with a newborn.  The vision had been tempting.  She’d been happy he proposed, because if she’d told him about the pregnancy beforehand,it would always have been in the back of her mind that it had been a contributing factor.  There had been a part of her that was ready to tell Walsh that night, but with Hook’s appearances and the feelings of disquiet he’d brought with him, she’d decided to wait it out another few days.

Of course it was the right decision.

“But as usual he wasn’t who he said he was and I got my heart broken.”  She hates him.  She’s glad he’s dead.  Except for the part of her that still remembers all those little scenarios she’d cooked up in her head. Family meals around a huge mahogany table, and what he would have looked like teaching their daughter to whittle, or their son to play piano.  And she hates herself for still thinking about it.  “That enough humour for you?”

She knows she has to push him away.  There’s a very real danger of her actually caring for Hook and that can’t happen.  Not now, not ever.  She thinks back to the speech she once gave him;  _ Look after yourself and you never get hurt _ .  Well, she’s trying and sarcasm is a surefire way to get what she needs.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad to hear that.”  His words stab sharply through her chest, piercing dangerously close to her heart.  She doesn’t want to admit it, but they really do.  Because she’s succeeding- she’s pushing him away, and he’s going.  She has to remind herself that this might not be what she wants but it is what she needs.  But there’s a part of her that has to know if that’s what he really means.

“You’re glad to hear I had my heart broken?”

“If it can be broken it means it still works.”  Damn him.  All that she wants is for Hook to be gone, to stop caring and understanding and resisting all her defenses.  She can’t do anything but stare at his retreating form and feel her stomach turn- with fear or anticipation or just more morning sickness she’s not quite sure.

**

“We’re not going to lose another baby.”  David’s voice is firm leaving no room for argument and as the battle plans are formed around her, Emma suddenly wonders if there’s another way to protect Mary Margaret and her unborn brother or sister.  Offering Zelena a trade- letting her know that there’s another baby would give them more time to come up with a way to defeat her.  From what she’s revealed of herself it’s clear that she’s spent years planning her revenge on Regina.  Surely she could be persuaded to put off the deed for six months longer.

Leaving Henry with Hook comes as second nature now and whatever Regina’s insinuations on the matter, she trusts him.  She just wishes he wouldn’t put thoughts in her head that refuse to go away.

She needs to defeat Zelena and leave Storybrooke.  The sooner the better.  She needs to go back to New York, protect Henry and make a reliable list of her options without anyone else interfering with her thoughts.

Her thoughts drift back to prison, back to sitting on her bunk and watching her stomach swell daily.  Despite knowing there was no way for her to support a child back then, a part of her had still dreamed of it and she’ll never be able to thank Regina enough for giving her a second chance- a chance to raise her son without social services breathing down her neck at each turn or begging for food and shelter.

Twelve years ago there had been no options for her- being a part of a family, even just for a second before Henry was taken away, had been too much of a temptation.  Although she’d hated them at the time the counsellors had helped her make her decision- reassuring her that not all babies spent their life bounced around the system, that there were private adoption agencies that would ensure her child was placed in a good home.  She’d made the right choice.

Now things are different.  From what she can work out the flying monkeys seem to be people under a spell, but she doesn’t know if Walsh was a special case- he was outside Storybrooke for a start.  And his sudden transformation on the apartment roof in New York hints at one of two options: either that he could choose his form at will or that his human form was only in place as long as she was in a relationship with him.  She’s not sure which one is worse..  She would never have willingly entered into a relationship with a monkey, but the idea that he was only with her under duress sits leaden in her stomach.

Hook’s wrong.  She doesn’t need to embrace her magic, she doesn’t need to make a life here in Storybrooke and she certainly doesn’t need him lecturing her on what she can and can’t pretend exists.

For example; her breasts are not spilling out of her bra today, she has not thrown up three times this morning and her inability to assemble a crib had not forced her to hide in the loft bathroom until the tears had stopped flowing.

Regina’s constant lectures on potential are drowned out by the blood rushing through her ears- Emma’s honestly not sure whether it’s from panic or a drop in blood sugar or something else, but she’s not sure the other woman would have been quite so enthused had she explained her feelings as she saved herself from the canyon.  When Cora had tried to rip out her heart the light and the feelings- the magic- had come from her chest, from her heart but today the pull had been much lower.  For all of Regina’s talk of knowledge and instinct Emma can’t help but wonder if maybe the baby inside her was actually what helped her to rebuild the bridge.  She shakes her head, clearing it of the thought.  Just because all her inner turmoil currently revolves around one thing doesn’t mean it has any affect externally.

“Regina?”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”  Emma bites her tongue, not quite believing what she was about to do.  Are her thoughts really so loud she was about to put voice to them?

“We have to find ways for you to practise.  You’re not going to defeat the wicked witch by hoping she tries to sling you down a cliff.”  Regina’s brusque tone gives Emma an idea of exactly what her opinion would be- or at least how she would express it and she doesn’t need a lecture, or even a solution… she just needs a sounding board.

Mary Margaret’s not a sounding board- she’s a baby crazed princess who would have their children dressed in matching outfits before either left the womb. Henry might have grown up a lot, but she has to remember he’s still a child, and David, while honest to a fault, is unlikely to allow her to talk through every option equally.  Perhaps Belle, she wonders idly- she’s certainly always been willing to listen before and has never seemed judgemental or ill informed.

Another idea hits her.  Because there’s one person who’s always been willing to listen and offer their honest opinion when she’s needed it.

“Killian?  Whatever happened this past year, whatever you’re not telling me, I don’t care.  I’m tired of living in the past.”  She’s surprised but not completely put out when the opening she’s giving him isn’t grasped at eagerly; maybe he doesn’t realise what she’s telling him, maybe he’s giving her space to change her mind, maybe he’s just tired.  She’s not that bothered, because for all her mind has spent the day churning, the decision to talk to Killian seems to have set it at ease.

**

The very thought of speaking to Hook about anything sends anger shooting through her like lava.  That he could keep something so serious from her, that he didn’t even  _ consider _ talking through his options… the irony isn’t lost on her.

But standing in the hospital corridor listening to Mary Margaret in the beginning of labour her decision has never been clearer.

“I think you can see a future here, a happy one.”  She wants to deny him but she  _ can _ imagine living in Storybrooke, taking over as sheriff again permanently, sharing custody of Henry with Regina, looking after her new sibling while David and Mary Margaret have G rated date nights. Maybe even accepting Hook’s apology.  There’s no second baby in that future- even if she wanted another child, which she’s fairly certain she doesn’t, she couldn’t raise it in Storybrooke, couldn’t leave it in the care of someone else while she ran off to hunt a troop of baby dragons and risk leaving it an orphan.

In New York she and Henry could go back to what they had; school and bailbonds and afternoons in Bleecker Street Pizza.  There’d be an arm length’s distance between them and Storybrooke- there could be visits and camping trips and fun without the family drama or having to face up to any feelings she may be developing.

There’s a clinic in Brooklyn.

And that has to be her focus right now, because counting the weeks since Hook persuaded her to come back to Storybrooke makes her realise that if she’s not quick the decision will be taken from her… she’s almost certain her last period was twelve weeks ago tomorrow.

Protect Mary Margaret’s baby, defeat the witch, leave Storybrooke, visit Brooklyn.

It’s a short list, it should be easy.  Giving Killian CPR makes it much less so.

**

  
  


***

 

It’s no good, there’s no way this corset is fitting on her.

 

There’s a bump.

 

An honest-to-god bump and as if being thrown through a portal into The Enchanted Forest and back in time wasn’t enough, she really needs to stop avoiding dealing with  _ this _ .

 

“Swan?”  Emma scrambles to cover herself… she really can’t blame Hook for coming to look for her- she’s been behind this bush a good fifteen minutes and with who knows what around, she’d be getting antsy too.

 

But with the petticoat riding low on her hips and the corset riding up awkwardly and painfully there’s no way he’ll miss…

 

“Swan?”  He rounds the shrubbery and takes her in- she can’t imagine the undergarments of this realm look appealing on her, but she can see the appreciation in his eyes nonetheless.

 

“Hook, I-”  She watches as he comes to his senses and spins around again.

 

“Sorry, I thought-”  He looks up at the canopy of leaves and the situation is so awkward it would be hilarious from the outside.

 

“It’s fine, Hook. Just give me another minute.”  He takes a few steps away- far enough to give her privacy but much closer than before.  She discards the corset completely and fumbles with her own bra.  The dress slips on over the top but even it is overly tight and without a mirror she can tell it doesn’t sit properly without the corset.

 

“Okay, I’m decent.”  She calls out and begins folding up her modern day clothes, fitting her jeans and shirt inside her jacket, before stuffing them inside the tree stump they’d noted earlier.

 

He doesn’t mention it.  She’s amazed by his restraint.  She wants him to bring it up, to be the one to start the conversation so she can gauge where his thoughts lie, so she can prepare to defend herself.

He does mention they need to start out soon if they’re to make it to the vicinity of Rumplestiltskin’s castle before dark and she groans- she’s a city gal; between the bug and public transport she’d never had much need for walking before moving to Storybrooke and even there a half an hour stroll is more than sufficient to take you all the way from the town line to the docks.

 

The trudge along the dirt road lasts hours.  Her feet are burning in the ill-fitting boots she’s wearing, her back aches and everything just feels heavy.  The worst part is that despite Hook’s assurances, Emma’s not convinced they’ve actually gone anywhere- the scenery is exactly the same: trees, an occasional rock, and more trees.

 

“We should rest.” Hook declares suddenly and begins to veer off the road towards an admittedly inviting looking clearing.

 

“No, no, I’m fine.”  Emma argues.  Hook just turns to look at her with eyebrows raised.

 

“Be that as it may, _ I’m _ not.  I need a break.”  It’s a lie.  She knows it’s a lie, he knows she knows it’s a lie.  She nods anyway and moves to find a comfortable perch.

 

They sit for a few moments in silence.  He’s waiting, as always, for her to take the lead.  All she can think about is the moment he saw her changing earlier though.  He hasn’t mentioned it, hasn’t said a damn thing even vaguely referencing it.  Sometimes she wishes he wasn’t such a gentleman, wasn’t so patient… Of course it’s her that breaks the silence first.

 

“Are you sure that we’re-”

 

“Swan.”  He doesn’t need to say anything else- she’s lost count of the amount of times he’s had to reassure her over the past several hours.

 

“It’s just I’m sure it’s going to get dark soon, and-”

 

“Right.  We’ll need to make camp for the night, find some water.  And you need to eat.”  It’s said offhand, but it’s the first time he’s slipped up and she jumps on it.

 

“ _ I _ need to eat?”  She snaps indignantly.  “You mean  _ we _ need to eat?”  He blusters for a minute over how to answer before taking a breath and plunging in.

 

“So, I’m guessing that you and the monkey-”  Emma cuts him off with a glare.

 

“Walsh, Hook. He has… had a name.”

 

“And you were going to marry him.”  She knows where this is going and she’s mostly dreading it, but if she’s honest, it might be a relief to finally talk about it with  _ someone _ . And if she’s really honest, she can’t imagine having this conversation with anyone else. And if there were ever a time to be honest with herself, it’s now.

 

“Clearly, yes.  Maybe.”  She thinks how to phrase her answer rather than offering her usual knee-jerk reaction.  “I mean…  Henry liked him, he had a good job, he was reliable.”  She thinks back to how she felt before her memories returned, trying to put into words why Walsh had seemed like such a great guy at the time.

 

“Because those are obviously the most important qualities to have in a lover.”  Clearly Hook isn’t putting the same amount of thought into the conversation, sarcasm at the fore as she’s often noticed when he’s uncomfortable.

 

“A love-  Hook, are you jealous?”  She’s not mad about it, slightly amused maybe.

 

“No.” He denies quickly, hand coming up to scratch behind his ear and she covers a slight smile.

 

“Because I didn’t ask for this.”  Maybe she should get angry.  Anger she can deal with, she can hold it like an ember inside, ready to stoke as needed.  Something to keep people at arm’s length and to smother the panic that threatens to crawl up her throat whenever she thinks too hard.  “I didn’t ask to have most of my life fictionalised and the people in it forgotten.”  The words don’t come out angry, they come out soft and defensive.  Vulnerable.

 

“I’m not saying-”  Hook starts but she doesn’t let him finish.

 

“And I certainly didn’t ask to end up pregnant and not even be sure of the species.”  Emma’s shocked to realise her voice has fallen to a whine.

 

“I know that Swan.”  His voice is so gentle; he’s feeling vulnerable too, evening the playing field between them.  He reaches up, stopping himself just short of touching her and although she’d welcome the touch she’s glad, because she’s feeling so weak right now and isn’t confident in her ability not to cry.  Killian takes a breath before continuing, bracing himself for whatever he’s about to say.  “It’s just… I kept my promise, I thought of you-”

 

“Don’t,”  Emma barks out.  She has to stop him before the tears she can feel prickling at her eyes gain enough weight to fall.

 

“Don’t?”

 

“Please,” she begs quietly.  “I can’t.  Not now.”

 

“Of course.”  She watches the hurt flash in his eyes before his face closes down and feels the need to clarify, uncomfortable with being the source of his looking like that.

 

“It was gone.”  She tries to explain.  “All of it.  It wasn’t like forgetting your wallet… there was nothing there.  I didn’t even know that I missed… things.”

 

“Things?”  She hears the question in the word, wishes she could give him the certainty he craves.

 

“Yes.”  She waits for his gaze to lift.  “Things.”  He gets it, she sees in his eyes that he knows what she’s trying to say without words.  They hold each other’s gazes for a moment before he clears his throat and looks away.

 

“Does the boy know?”

 

“About this?”  She gestures to her midsection.

 

“About the mon- about Walsh?”  He clarifies and she can’t help but break out a small smile at him self-correcting Walsh’s name… Just as she asked him to.

 

“No, we haven’t had time to hash everything out yet.”

 

“You should make time.”

 

“I will.”  She sighs.  “But he’s busy catching up with Regina at the moment.  And Snow and David.  And Ruby… He missed them.”

 

“He’ll be missing you, too.”  Killian says genuinely and Emma decides it’s time to start moving again.

 

“He will be if we don’t get to Rumpelstiltskin’s castle and persuade him to send us back.”  She mutters as she stands and heads towards the road again, leaving Hook to snuff out the smoldering ashes and gather up his satchel before catching her up.

 

“Not planning on staying here much longer then?”  Hook quips as he falls into step beside her.

 

“Not eager to visit this realm’s version of a women’s clinic.”

 

“Clinic?”  Hook asks, confused.  She tries to translate.

 

“Y’know, for-” She sweeps her arm across her stomach, hoping she can convey what she wants to with actions.

 

“Right.”  He says.  “A midwife.”  He looks so proud of himself for having drawn that conclusion.

 

“No, an-”

 

“A wet nurse?”  She spins to face him, jaw dropped and takes in the grin spreading across his face.

 

“Hook!”  She swats his arm, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood.  They share a smile before he sobers.

 

“I’m sorry, love.  I have no idea which type of carer you’re after… I’m not that experienced with your condition.”

 

“Yeah, well, the condition is the problem.”

 

“The problem?”

 

“Never mind, Hook.  Forget it.”  She speeds up her steps again, it won’t take him long to catch onto her meaning.

 

“You’re considering liberating yourself?”

 

“Liberating myself?”

 

“From the child?”  He clarifies and she sighs, at least he’s following her.

 

“I’m considering all sorts of things.  Mostly how to get the hell out of here.”

 

“Right then.”  Hook’s reply is short, acknowledging her abrupt changing of the topic and they continue on for a few minutes in silence.  But Emma can feel him practically vibrating with energy beside her.  It’s a feeling she remembers well from both sets of memories- mothers in Henry’s school playgrounds, counsellors in prison, random women on the subway… All itching to offer an unwanted opinion.  Eventually she can’t stand pretending the tension isn’t there.

 

“Don’t judge me.”  She snaps, aware she’s practically stamping her feet as she walks, but as she glances out of the corner of her eye she can see the genuine confusion on his face and it draws her up short.

 

“Judge you?”

 

“For thinking about it.”

 

“Love, it’s hardly my place to say anything.”  He shrugs and it makes something clench tight inside of her.  He’s never lied to her, has always thought of her in his actions… it shouldn’t surprise her that he has no intention of tearing her down now, but it does.  She wonders at her own assumptions, whether she’s projecting her feelings onto him, uncomfortable with the decision she’s made.  But although there’s an inevitable guilt she knows what she wants is right.

 

“That never stops most people.”  She mumbles, then is brought to a stop as he grips her elbow lightly, turning her to face him.  Most of her can’t stand the look on his face- the soft, open honesty that fills it, but there’s a part of her that soars at it, that makes a small smile curl across her lips as he looks her straight in the eyes and speaks.

 

“Am I most people?”  He asks and she finds her head shaking slowly from side to side unbidden.  “Emma, I believe I’ve made my respect for you quite clear on numerous occasions.  And I’ve never known you to walk blindly into any situation without considering all the angles-. I wouldn’t expect this to be any different.”  She wants to believe him, but she has to know:

 

“And if I’ve already decided?”

 

“Then it’s your decision Emma.”

 

“I can’t have this baby.”  She says and the words hit her like a solid blow to the stomach.  It’s the first time she’s acknowledged the choice that a part of her made a month ago- before they found themselves in The Enchanted Forest, before she left Boston, even before Walsh proposed.

 

“Alright.”  He says, but she’s not listening.

 

“I’m not ready, my life isn’t stable, it’s not fair to Henry, Storybrooke isn’t safe, my credit card debt is ridiculous…”  The excuses wear out and finally she gets to the crux of it.  “I don’t want it.  I don’t want another child and I especially don’t want  _ his _ child.”

 

“Then don’t have it.”  He shrugs and she can’t believe it’s that simple to him.

 

“If Snow or David were here-”

 

“They’re not.”

 

“They’ll hate me.”  She’s aware that this is at the root of her doubts.  Because for all that she’s spent her life shunning the approval of others, knowing that her parents won’t agree with her decision bothers her.

“Swan, they could never hate you.”  She doesn’t share his certainty but moves on.

“And what do I tell Henry?”

“I’m assuming you mean in the future, not right now?”  He asks, clearly wanting to make sure he addresses the correct concern.

“Right?  I’m his mom- I’m supposed to teach him that his actions have consequences, not that there’s a way out of the consequences.  And one day he’s going to want his own child and realise that one of his mothers gave away one child and terminated the other.”

“I don’t think that the lad will see it that way- what was it he said to you in the hospital? ‘Defeating bad guys is what you do’.  That’s what your boy thinks of you.”

“And Regina?”

“Swan, what on earth makes you think that all these people have a say in the matter? Aye, they may be your family, your friends. Whatever it is that Regina is, exactly. But they’re not the ones in your position right now. You think any of them have faced down this kind of predicament? Or would have the strength to be honest with themselves about their own feelings if they were? You don’t have to answer to them, Emma. You don’t even have to tell them if you don’t bloody well want to. And if you do decide to tell them, in your own time, know they’ll have my hook to answer to if they don’t respect your wishes.”  His speech is impassioned and she can’t help but stare at him, his mouth a hard line and hook raised in front of him.  She wishes she could tell him how much it means to her to have him say the things he has, but she can’t quite put the feeling into words.  She clears her throat and pulls her gaze away from his, ending the moment.

“Regardless.  I can’t do anything about it until I’m back in New York.”

“New York?  Still?”

“That’s where the clinic is, Killian.”

“And this clinic is where you would receive the necessary potions?”

“Right.”

“And there isn’t one in Storybrooke?”

“There isn’t one in Maine.”

“Well, if it’s potions you’re after, perhaps there’s no need to worry about New York. Don’t forget, this is a land of magic, love. And I might know a place or two to obtain such a potion, right here in the Enchanted Forest.”

 

“Well, lead the way.”

 

**

 

The smell as they enter the tavern hits her like a punch to the stomach.

 

“Oh god.”

 

“Swan?”  Hook calls after her as she exits back through the heavy door and sprints to the nearest alley.  Throwing up the bread from earlier she continues to wretch, her stomach cramping as it desperately tries to expel everything; eventually only yellow acid making its way up her throat.

 

“Are you okay there?”  Hook asks from behind her and Emma can’t summon the energy to even shoot him a withering look.

 

“How are we going to do this?”  She asks.  “Are you- is he even in there?”

 

“Oh he’s in there.”  He wrinkles his nose slightly as he says it and frowns and Emma wonders what he’s so bothered by.  Surely he knows what his past self is up to.  

 

“And?”  She asks before she realises.  He knows exactly what his past self is up to.  She can’t help but smile at the flustered look that crosses his face and gives in to the temptation to tease him.  “Is he doing something he’s not supposed to?”

 

“Swan.”  The look on his face is priceless- surprise at her tone pushing out the shame at his other self’s actions before a smirk pulls at his lips.  “By definition, a pirate is always doing something he’s not supposed to.”

 

“Or she.”  An idea begins to form.  Hook has to speak to Snow and convince her to steal the ring from David, somehow without the Hook in the tavern interfering.

 

She outlines her plan and he grins.  “I always knew there was a little pirate in you.” He says and a little bit of pride fills her at the compliment before his face falls and she catches a second meaning to his words.

 

“Not a pirate- a monkey.”  She says, hand on his arm to reassure him that she knows the slip was just that, not an intentional jibe.

 

Emma takes his sword from its scabbard, revelling in the small gasp of air he takes at her proximity.  She swallows down the disquiet in her stomach and gulps one last breath of fresh air before opening the tavern door.

 

“Killian Jones.”  Her voice belies the nerves and nausea running through her, deep and determined even as she has to remind herself to breathe in short, shallow bursts through her mouth to minimise the impact of the smell on her system.

 

An eerie quiet falls over the tavern, every gaze on her.  She pretends not to see him immediately, eyes sweeping the room to take everything in.  Eventually Smee speaks up, moving into her line of sight

 

“Who wants to know?”  She snorts, wondering if they’ve done this often- Hook’s left arm tucked away beneath the table out of sight, Smee’s in his pocket, ambiguous enough to anyone looking for the eponymous hook.  Emma brushes past the underling dismissively, striding over to Hook’s table and pushing between the girls opposite him.  His interest is piqued now, filling his eyes, making them dance in the way she’s become so accustomed to- he loves a mystery, a challenge, she knows this.  Knows him.

 

“You owe me.”  She says, bending at the waist and planting the heels of her hands on the table, using her arms to push her already enhanced cleavage forward.  As expected his gaze drops, lip running over his bottom lip in either anticipation or invitation, whichever one it is causing her stomach to clench.  But before she can resume her acting and berate him his eyes are back on hers- always a gentleman, even in his darkest times.

 

“Well love,” he leans over the table himself, narrowing the gap between them and suddenly it’s not just the stale tavern air making it hard to catch her breath.  “I’m sure whatever debt you feel I owe, we can come up with a mutually beneficial way to pay it off.”  His teeth catch his lower lip on the last syllable and she finds it inexplicably hard to rip away her gaze.  She’s vaguely aware that the table has cleared of spectators and the background buzz of conversation is back; Smee clearly having deemed her no threat and indicated to the crew to stand down.  She almost feels sorry for him, knowing Hook will blame him in part when it turns out he really can’t handle this… handle her.

 

Emma rounds the table slowly, deliberately running her fingers over the rough wood and putting an extra sway into her hips before taking a seat next to Hook, leaning back against the table, presenting herself in a way very few men, in her experience, have tried to resist.  A small voice tries to convince her that this is just the same as any other skip she’s taken down over the years; the staccato of her pulse tells her otherwise.

 

“And what makes you think you have the capital to repay me?”  She raises an eyebrow and smiles, enjoying herself in a way she hasn’t for months.

 

“Oh darling, I have access to all the treasures in the realm,” his index finger climbs her arm, leaving gooseflesh in its wake and he brings his mouth close enough to her ear that she feels his words tickle her skin, “no matter how well concealed.”  His hand pauses on her collarbone, waiting for her nod of agreement before allowing it to ghost down the front of her gown.  She catches it before he can press it any closer against her however, sliding their fingers together and resting them in her lap.  He grins and somehow moves even closer on the bench, his chest brushing against her right arm and every movement of his lips disturbing the air between them.

 

“Perhaps it’s your pursuit of hidden treasure that I take issue with?”  She feels him tense slightly, clearly having been distracted enough to forget her initial demand.  But a moment later the seduction and swagger is back.

 

“I’m afraid I have no recollection of having met you before- if you could share your particular grievance then perhaps I can set about making the necessary amends.”  An image of Killian on his knees before her, eyes full of appreciation and lo-lust flashes through her mind and she has to push the thought away, remind herself that the man beside her isn’t  _ her  _ Killian. Not yet..

 

“So should I blame the rum or your startlingly poor memory for your inability to recall our last… encounter?”  She draws out the last word, implying any number of things with it.  She feels the confusion run through his body.

 

“I’m sorry love, but I have no idea to what you refer… It’s been several months since i was last in port.”

 

“Oh, I know.  I remember very well, even if you don’t.  Of course, I do have a reminder…”  She pulls their joined hands against her abdomen and she can tell the split second he connects her implications with the swell of her stomach.

 

“Love-”  He splutters, pulling his hand rapidly out of grip, raising it to his head before catching himself, suppressing the surprised and nervous gesture she’s seen a hundred times before.  It’s such a little thing in amongst everything else but it’s a stark reminder that this version of Killian is very much alone, guarded against all outsiders, unwilling even to let a sliver of vulnerability peek out from behind his walls.  The Killian she knows may protect himself, but never from her.

 

“Don’t deny it Jones, I have any number of ways to prove it.”  She hopes that Hook can’t read her as well as Killian, can’t see through her bald-faced lies.

 

“And what, exactly, do you expect of me?”  All trace of seduction is gone from his voice now, his business persona pushed to the fore and she watches him regard her in a way she’s noticed he does with Gold.  Tries not to let that hurt.

 

“Well, I figure such a notorious pirate as Captain Hook, one who  _ has access to all the treasures in the realm _ should be able to provide the mother of his child with all the security she’d ever need.”  She makes sure to put no inflection into the words; to watch him try to get a measure of her as he comes up with schemes and counter-schemes behind those oh-so-expressive eyes.  She knows he can’t decide whether she’s a con artist or just taking advantage of the situation but he doesn’t dismiss her outright, clearly planning on keeping her close until a solution presents itself.

 

“I suggest we discuss this somewhere more private,” he says eventually and she raises an eyebrow.  He chuckles bitterly.  “Don’t worry, love, I’m hardly likely to knock you up a second time.”

 

The evening air is cool but a balm to her abused sinuses.  Leaving the tavern has ensured he’s separated from his crew as back up but presents a second problem as he strides towards the docks with purpose and she glances a hooded figure only just disembarking in the distance.

 

“I want The Jolly Roger.”  She spits out, not entirely sure where the words have come from, but instantly evoking the reaction she expected.  Hook spins on his heels, facing her with gritted teeth, anger and disappointment evident on his face, as though he’d somehow expected more of her but isn’t really surprised at how things turned out.

 

“Is that right?”  He says, voice empty of any emotion.  Emma tries to keep half an eye on the ship behind him, waiting for Killian to make his escape, but Hook’s advancing threateningly, using the difference in their height and his dark mood to impose upon her- and if she didn’t know him so well she doesn’t doubt it would be effective- that his hurt would be disguised as anger and she would cower at his presence.

 

Instead Emma draws Killian’s sword from its place at her hip.  This is a last resort- she’s under no illusions that the one time she beat Killian at swordplay was anything other than a complete fluke, but perhaps there’s a way to catch him off guard again- there’s no shortage of loose stones in the street around her that she can use when- if- he disarms her.

 

“Now, Princess,” he sneers and she wonders for a moment how he knows, before realising he’s using the term as an insult, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with that?”

 

“Sure,” she shrugs, hoping her nerves are hidden beneath her feigned nonchalance.  “Pointy end goes in the other guy.”  He snorts before his hand falls to the hilt of his own sword.

 

“It’s a pity.  I could like you.”  Emma smiles to herself.  He really could like her.  She could really like him. She knows that. She knows him.  She thinks of one last ditch distraction before it comes down to her impaled on Hook’s sword.  And not in the good way.  She angles her wrist down, allowing him to glimpse the pommel of the sword she carries.  She knows the second he sees it as he freezes mid-stride, halting his advance.

 

“Where did you get that?”  She knows his sword is one of a kind, that he’ll recognise it at a glance.  Still, she shrugs.

 

“You tell me.”  She says noncommittally.  The confusion on his face is palpable as he moves slowly towards her in a daze.  She’d almost feel sorry for him if she hadn’t caught sight of a shadow behind him, relief inexplicably filling her- it’s not like she needs rescuing, but knowing that Killian is there to back her up is reassuring and fills her with a sudden rush of confidence.  While Hook’s gaze still flickers between his sword and hers she plants her feet and squares her shoulders, allowing him to move into range before bringing the sword up quickly and cleanly, catching him in the side of the head with the pommel.  It’s almost disappointing how quickly he goes down.

 

“Easy Swan!”  Killian’s indignant cry comes from the shadows.  “Nothing that leaves a scar!”  She grins as he approaches.

 

“I don’t know...,” she exaggeratedly lets her eyes move to his cheek before meeting his gaze again.  “Scars can be sexy.”  She grins at the look on his face- lips parted, eyes wide, as if he can’t quite believe she’s said such a thing.  Eventually he shakes himself out of his daze.

 

“There’s no way he’s forgetting that.”  He says eventually, motioning to where his past-self still lies unconscious on the ground.

 

“Tie him up and then forgetting potion?”  She suggests with a shrug.  She really hadn’t thought this far ahead.  He nods.

 

“Good thing I picked up enough from The Jolly Roger to pay Heather quite generously.”  Killian says and she frowns.

 

“Who’s Heather?”

 

**

 

Heather is a witch.  A young, tanned, gorgeous witch who seems far too familiar with Killian for Emma to feel entirely comfortable with her.  There’s giggling and hair tossing and far too many uses of  _ love _ and  _ sweetheart _ to prevent something welling up in Emma that she’s worried is vaguely akin to jealousy.

 

The liquid Heather gives her smells almost as bad as the tavern from last night.  It’s a pale green with dark purple flecks running through it and as she tips the bottle experimentally from side to side she can tell that it’s not only thick but lumpy.  She raises an eyebrow at the woman.

 

“It’s not meant to be pleasant.”  The witch’s voice is condescending as hell and makes Emma’s spine straighten in indignation.  “If you can’t face drinking that, how are you going to suffer through what follows?”  She’s not thinking about what follows.

 

“Come on, love, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”  She watches as Killian hands over the agreed gold and ushers her out of the hut with a hand on the small of her back.

 

It doesn’t take long for Killian to bluff his way back onto The Jolly Roger to administer the forgetting potion to Hook, still restrained and seething in his cabin.

 

“Where to?”  Killian asks once they’re beyond the village borders and into the woods again.

 

“Midas’ castle.”  She says determinedly, unsurprised when he stops and turns her to him.

 

“What?”

 

“We have to make sure that Snow steals that ring.  She’s going to do it at the Ball tonight and we should be there too.”

 

“Lov-” she cuts Hook off with a look that she knows he’ll understand- this isn’t up for negotiation and she’s not about to change her mind- and he nods before continuing.  “Right then, lead the way.”

 

It doesn’t take long for the castle to appear through the trees; the unnecessary opulence a stark difference to the run-down ports and villages they’ve spent the last three days in. King Midas doesn’t seem to be spreading the wealth.

 

“We need to get in there, I don’t like leaving things to chance.”

 

“You know, I feel exactly the same way,”  Rumpelstiltskin’s cackle from behind them sends shivers down Emma’s spine. It’s unnerving at first,  but if she’s honest she almost prefers this iteration of him to Storybrooke’s Gold- he might be evil but at least here he’s open about it, rather than double-speaking and conniving his way through life.  “Which is why I never do.”  He waves his hand, his grin widening to show unnaturally sharpened teeth and suddenly he looks exactly like the crocodile Hook has always claimed him to be.  “See?  An invitation to the ball.”

 

“So you’ll be inside?”  She asks enthusiastically before realising his true meaning and finding herself dressed to the nines, crocodile encrusted heels awkwardly digging into the soft forest floor as they pick their way towards the castle.

 

The corset beneath the red dress has been put into place with magic and consequently is much tighter than the one she attempted to put on when they first arrived in The Enchanted Forest, pressing tightly into her abdomen, not allowing her to forget the weight of the vial of potion in the small purse she still carries.

 

But she forgets her discomfort in Killian’s arms as they waltz around the ballroom, conversation flowing easily between them.

 

“Do you know what to expect?”  He asks her at one point and she shrugs that she’s not stupid, but it doesn’t stop the knot of fear tightening in her chest- because she might have read up on how an abortion works in a sterile clinic in a world without magic, but there’s every chance this could be entirely different.

 

Until he reminds her of his unwavering support and she finds herself able to breathe just that touch easier again.  Tonight- once Snow’s safely away with the ring and her parents are back on their right path- they’ll find somewhere quiet and safe and soon this will all be over with.

 

Except when they find themselves embroiled in politics and rescues and are inevitably betrayed by the distinctly crocodilian Rumpelstiltskin.

 

Again.

 

**

 

Emma takes in the vault around her.  It’s so tall she can barely make out the gargoyles decorating the cornices.  Archways lead to row after row of artifacts and potions spilling off their shelves, and a pile of books in one corner looks ready to topple over.

 

Her own clothes are back too.  After a week of dresses and thin soled slippers her feet and thighs welcome the sturdy structure of her jeans and boots.  But there’s no avoiding the discomfort in her midsection.

 

“Well,” Killian’s voice rings out in the cavernous vault and she looks over to see him in front of a mirror, all smirk and swagger as he takes himself in.  “At least he did us one favour.  I’m devilishly handsome again.”  He looks to her with a chuckle and Emma rolls her eyes to hide the grin that threatens.  Because he is, and he knows it, but also because that’s exactly the reaction he was aiming for from her.  And she knows it.  And she refuses to be that predictable.

 

The last week- hell, the last three months- weigh on Emma and she’s hit by a wave of exhaustion.  Her legs feel suddenly unable to hold her and she moves to the edge of the room, leaning back and sliding down the wall until she’s sitting, her face pointed skyward and her eyes closed.

 

She doesn’t realise what she’s doing at first.  Hook is busy moving around the vault, the sound of cupboards and drawers being opened and rifled through becoming white noise by the time it hits her eardrums.  There’s a crash as something is dropped and she wonders why that doesn’t have her up and scolding Hook like a three year old- if Rumplestiltskin is afraid of this stuff, there’s got to be a reason.

 

Then it hits her.  She’s giving up.  And she can’t find it in herself to care.

 

She misses Henry, she misses her parents and Storybrooke, she even misses Leroy’s flair for the dramatic and Happy’s weird cologne, but she misses one thing most of all.

 

It’s another ten minutes before Killian finishes his exploration and crosses the room to join her.  He pulls gently on her shoulder, urging her forward before sliding a cushion he’s found between her back and the wall.  He takes his place beside her and without thinking she leans into him, allowing him to rest an arm over her shoulders.

 

“Swan?”  He asks after a while and she can hear the worry lacing his words.

 

“I lost it,” she says softly, trying to explain the tidal wave of emotion she’s suddenly drowning in.  “I can’t do it anymore.  I lost  _ me _ .”

 

And of course, because of who he is, he gets it.  She can feel the understanding and the sympathy pour out of him.

 

“You’re still here, Swan.”  She snorts in response.

 

“Yeah.  Look where ‘here’ is though.”  She gestures wildly around her.  “No way out, no magic, no imminent rescue…”

 

“I’ve told you once-”  At some point Killian’s cheek has moved to rest on the crown of her head and she feels his words vibrate through her as he speaks, adding tenor without adding volume.  “I had yet to see you fail.  That’s still the case, Swan.  You’re still The Savior.”

 

A single sob breaks out of her.  It’s dry, tearless and desperate, a vocalisation of the hopelessness she feels coursing through her.  Beside her Hook jumps, startled, and she loses the warmth of him from her side.  He takes advantage of the shift, widening the distance between them but pulling her around to face him.  She watches him rise to his knees, his hands on her upper arms, but she can’t find the courage to lift her gaze to meet his.

 

“You’re The Savior,”  he says again, not an iota of doubt in his voice.  She can only shake her head in response.  He reaches for his bag and she knows he’s going for the story book, that he plans to read from it, remind her of her family, her history.  Without being conscious of the decision to move she finds her hand over his.

 

“I’m not The Savior,”  she says quietly, but she feels a calm confidence begin to crawl over her at the words.  She lifts her head, meeting his gaze and whatever it is she’s starting to feel she sees he understands it too.  “I’m just Emma, and that’s okay.”

 

Emma watches the questions flow over Killian’s face.  He wants to ask them; she can see his lips twitch with almost spoken words, but he waits, as always, for her lead.

 

Thankfully the pouch she’s been carrying with her for the last few days still sits at her hip and she pulls at the strap; its weight no longer a burden but a comfort.  She undoes the knot that seals it and shakes out the vial.  She can feel Killian’s eyes on her and she raises her gaze to meet his.  He smiles softly at her, offering a small nod of encouragement.

 

“Stay with me?”  she asks, quiet but calm, confident that of everyone, he’ll look after her through this.

 

“Always,”  he says simply and she hears the promise there, acknowledging it by taking his hand lightly and squeezing before she stands.  Hook jumps to his feet too.  “Swan?”

 

“We need some things first.”  There’s water, goblets and a large basin on a dark wooden sideboard, a pile of rags stuffed in one corner and eventually she finds a tunic hidden away in a drawer.  She wonders why Rumpelstiltskin would have banished such an innocuous article to his vault, but it’s soft and dark and all she has available right at this moment.

 

Hurriedly Emma discards her jacket and jeans, pulling the long tunic on over her t-shirt before removing her socks and panties.  When she returns to Hook she takes a moment to appreciate that he’s removed his coat and arranged the rags into an almost nest, the other items that might come in useful all lined up within easy reach.

 

She doesn’t think as she uncorks the vial, then reaches out to take his hand.

 

“Are you sure, Swan?”  It’s the first time he’s offered any comment on the whole situation and it’s not said with any inflection.  It’s just a question.  He wants her to be happy, he wants her to make the right decision for her.  She smiles at him and he smiles back.  She wishes she could tell him how much this moment means to her.  How much he means to her, but she’s never been good with words.

 

“I’m sure.”  She says simply before raising the potion to her lips and swallowing.  The taste isn’t as bad as she expected but it’s not exactly pleasant either; the texture thick and grainy and she feels it not only in her throat but as it spreads through her extremities.

 

The effect is almost instant, cramps starting low in her abdomen, reminding her of her period, as a wave of nausea hits her.  She motions for the bucket by Hook’s side, wanting it closer in case she brings anything up.  She knows this is only the beginning.

 

“Talk to me,” she says quietly, and it takes him such a long beat to respond that she begins to wonder if he’s even heard her until he reaches over and pulls her to lie down, resting her head on his thigh and brushing her hair away from her face before running his hand down her body to massage her lower back.  The combination of the position and his ministrations eases the throbbing in her abdomen and she can almost relax as his voice washes over her.

 

“We had this cabin boy on The Jewel- long before she was The Jolly Roger- he was built like a strip of seaweed- too tall, skinny, limbs far too long for his frame.  On land he lacked the coordination to walk fifty metres without falling over his own feet.  But put him at the rigging and no force could stop him.  He pulled the weight of three men twice his size.

 

“We were in port one time and Liam had given us all the night off.  Bryce- that was the lad’s name- was left on sentry duty.  Most of the crew were well into their cups when there came reports of a disturbance at the docks.  Liam and I ran down to The Jewel and there’s Bryce, right on the edge, hollering into the water.

 

“Turns out the local pirates had decided, instead of forcing their way on board, they’d hire a couple of local girls to distract the sailors- which can be a solid plan, but Bryce’s interests lay away from beautiful women and when he’d failed to succumb to the ladies’ advances they’d taken it personally, and the two lookouts for the pirates had decided they were reneging on their deal.  All four had underestimated Bryce and all four had ended up in the water.

 

“By the time we arrived the men had been hauled out by their own crew, but the women were still flailing in the sea; parasols and skirts floating like jellyfish and rouge completely washed away.  Took us a solid hour to teach them how to climb a rope while their dresses pulled them back down.”

 

Emma’s laughing softly by the end of Killian’s story, his emphatic telling conjuring images in her mind.  She can picture him in naval whites attempting to pull prostitutes from the water while the furious Bryce and a stoic Liam look on.  Her laugh is cut short by another wave of nausea and she waits for it to pass before asking.

 

“What happened to him?”

 

“To Bryce?  Neverland happened,” Killian’s voice falls.  “He was barely four and twenty when we entered that realm.  He heard the cries and they got to him.  Pan played mind games with many of the crew and eventually Bryce was driven to insanity.  He threw himself from Skull Rock to the mercy of the mermaids.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault.”  She doesn’t know why it’s important, but with the sombre look on his face she feels she has to say it.  He gives her a half smile, appreciating her statement but not believing it.  “It wasn’t.”  She says again firmly.

 

“Swan, I know what you’re trying to do, but Bryce’s death is on me.”

 

“No, if-”

 

“As are many others.”  His tone brokers no room for argument.  “I had honour once and now I’d like to be able to think I can have it again.  But there’s no way forward for me if I refuse to be held to account for my past actions.”  His voice is so raw that she regrets not being able to see his face.  Her back screams at her and her head thumps as she pulls herself to a sitting position and turns to face him.  His head is bowed and his arms have dropped to his sides.  He thinks she’s rejecting him while nothing could be further from the truth.

 

“Hey,” Emma says softly before reaching out and lifting his chin so their eyes meet.  “Talk to me.”  She sees the relief cross his face before he starts up again.

 

“I’ve hurt people Emma.  I’ve killed people.  And I never once thought of the consequences- of their family and loved ones.  In avenging my love, I stole those of hundreds of others.”

 

“But you’ve changed.”

 

“That doesn’t make right the things I’ve done- the men I stabbed on muddy roadsides and virgins I’ve seduced on the eve of their wedding.”

 

“ _ Seriously? _ ”  She has to raise her eyebrows at that confession.  He shrugs it off.

 

“I’ve done wrong by countless people.  I’ve done wrong by you.”  His hand hovers by her cheek, clearly wanting to touch her but not feeling able to.  She closes the distance, leaning her face towards his palm and bringing her hand up to cover his.  He gives her a half smile as his thumb strokes her cheekbone and the emotion shining out of his eyes is as strong and clear as anything she’s ever seen.  She’s pretty sure she could name it if she wanted to, but that’s a step she’s not yet ready to take.

 

“And I forgive you.  You’ve more than made up for-”

 

“Swan-”  She can’t let him continue, knows he will come up with arguments all night to negate his worth.  She leans forward, raising to her knees and slowly moves her face to his, holding his gaze before pressing her lips to his.

 

It’s nothing like Neverland.  It’s closed mouthed and soft and… perfect.  And she never wants it to end.

 

Especially not because of the pain that rips through her.  She can’t help but cry out as she breaks the kiss and his arms are instantly around her, supporting her as she breathes through the contraction.

 

Contraction.

 

Shit.

 

She remembers this feeling from when Henry was born; the tightness that’s both completely in her abdomen and through her entire body at once.

 

And she hadn’t thought about this.

 

Hadn’t thought about things like labour and birth.  In her head it had been a process- find a comfy clinic far from Storybrooke, take the tablets, bleed, possibly throw up, go home.  Well this is definitely far from Storybrooke, but that’s the only thing from her list.

 

She’s in Rumpelstiltskin’s vault, having contractions, giving birth… Everything’s wrong, it’s just wrong; from the itchy tunic to the now-empty vial of potion.

 

“Swan!”  From the sharp bark of his voice she knows it’s not the first time he’s called her, and the relief on his face when she opens her eyes to look at him is palpable.  “Are you back with me?”  he asks and she nods.  He holds her gaze and she can’t look away, because this- he- is right.  The time and the place might suck, but he is always constant.

 

“I’m here, Killian,” she says, forcing down the panic that threatens to overwhelm her.  But it’s quickly replaced by something else.  Because she kissed him.  She kissed him and then…  Before she can stop them the words are rushing out of her mouth.  “I’m sorry.”

 

“Sorry for what?”  he asks and she can see he’s genuinely confused.

 

“For all of it.”  She gestures around her.  “I am literally aborting the remains of my last relationship and you act the perfect gentleman and I… I’m sorry I kissed you.”  She closes quietly and she sees the pain shoot through his eyes before he closes off his emotions; the mask she’s seen so many times slamming down over his features.

 

“Swan-”

 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you  _ here. _ Now.  Not when this is going on.  I wanted any kiss to be just you and me- no Walsh, no Rumpelstiltskin, no…”  She waves her arms around emphatically, trying to somehow sum up everything that’s going on.  She looks back to him as his features soften.

 

“You wanted?”  He asks, hope almost breaking the words.  She feels the blush shoot through her, her cheeks heating.

 

“Well, yeah.  I mean-”  She’s not entirely clear on what she was about to say as his lips crash into hers, his hand on her chin, pulling her toward him.  She takes a second to respond, but of everything going on this just feels right.  His lips are soft beneath hers but he’s firm in his movements.  He pulls back slightly, breaking the kiss but maintaining contact, his fingers caressing her face and their foreheads pressed lightly together.

 

“When we get home-”

 

“ _ If _ .”  She can’t help herself from interrupting.

 

“ _ When. _ ”  He says again firmly.  “When we get home, we can discuss this further.  But right now, you need to relax.”  She nods, ignoring the knot of panic in her stomach that appears at the thought of ‘discussing’ anything.

 

She’s not sure exactly how much time passes.  They talk a little about mindless things, compare the people they’ve met over the past few days with those waiting for them at home, share funny stories from their past- and Emma would almost describe it as first date material if everything else was different.  There are also long periods of comfortable silence.  She’s never had that with another person before: has always felt the need to fill any silence or get the hell away from it.  She’s pretty sure she dozes a few times between contractions until they begin to last longer and come closer together.

 

Eventually, she knows it’s time to move- at some point over the past several hours she’s settled into Killian’s side but it’s slowly becoming more and more uncomfortable.  She rises to her knees and without any real thought begins to swing her hips.

 

“You’re close now.”  His voice breaks through her pain and she nods.  The last time she counted there was less than a minute between the cramps that have seemed to spread now to encompass her whole abdomen.  As the pain eases a wave of nausea hits and she closes her eyes to try to fight it down.  “Here.”  She looks up to see him offering her water.  “Drink.  It will help with the nausea and the headaches.”  She examines his face closely as she takes the proffered goblet.

 

“You’ve done this before.”  She says eventually.  The surprise in his eyes is the only answer she needs and she nods curtly- letting him know that he doesn’t have to answer.

 

“Milah lost a child once.”  he confides after a few moments of silence.  She waits to see whether any more is coming but he remains silent and she lets it slide, although a part of her desperately wants to know if this is the second time he’s doing exactly this: watching a woman he cares for lose the child of another man.  The silence stretches a tad too long this time and she can see him awkwardly shuffle the jug of water in an attempt to distract himself from his thoughts.

 

“Can I have more?”  She asks, holding out the cup to him and trying to think of a way to change the subject.  She doesn’t have to though when another wave of pain washes over her and she’s hit by the sudden and urgent need to push.

 

“Shit.”  Her mind fails to process anything around her, suddenly focused purely on the sensations overtaking her.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  There’s liquid on her thighs and she quickly moves so the rags they positioned earlier are directly under her.  Her hands flail in search of an anchor- anything to draw her away from the feeling of her insides desperate to get out- she’s wretching and clenching and pushing all at once and there are spots of light behind her eyelids that she’s sure shouldn’t be there.

 

“Emma!”  Her fingers grab onto something solid as his voice cuts through her thoughts and the sudden spiraling panic recedes slightly.  She forces her eyelids to lift and watches as her hands tangle themselves into his shirt and waistcoat without any instruction from her.  “Emma look at me.”  Her head lifts slightly and she meets his gaze- the blue of his eyes giving her something to focus on.

 

“Killian?”  She’s not sure it’s her voice- she certainly doesn’t recognise it: small and weak.  “I’m scared.”  She admits.

 

“I know.  And that’s okay, Love.  But you have to listen to me right now.”  She nods, letting his voice flow over her, drowning the panic and almost making her forget the pain and nausea.  “Hold on to me, I’m not going anywhere.  Then you have to listen to your body and breathe in time with it.  Can you do that?”  It seems so simple when he says it and for a moment she thinks maybe she can but when her abdomen clenches again she feels incapable of anything but letting her body drag her along for the ride.

 

“Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

 

“Emma!”  His voice isn’t gentle this time.  “Listen to me.  Breathe- in, out, in and out.”  She wants to shout at him to shut up; that her swearing is much more effective than his goddamned mantra and he’s too fucking slow anyway, her breath coming in gasps at least twice as fast as he’s intoning.  Her lungs seem both too small and completely empty at once; each inhale causing an ache to shoot through her chest while leaving her still needing more.  She lets go of Hook’s shirt, falling forward.  Exhaustion shoots through her and she wants nothing more than to lie down, but before she can make it to the floor she’s roughly pulled upright again.

 

“Hook?”  She says slowly- not really sure what she’s asking of him.

 

“Snap out of it Emma- you have to do this and do it quickly or it’s going to go wrong.”  She’s never heard him speak like this before; rough and demanding.  There’s no room for argument in his voice and she frowns, puzzled as to why she’s not mad at him for that.  Slowly his meaning penetrates her consciousness:  _ it’s going to go wrong _ .  With an awful certainty she realises it’s already going wrong.  Her head, her body is fighting itself, her thoughts muddled and slow and her vision blurred.  She looks down, sees the blood pooled below her and knows he’s right- she has to do this quickly.

 

She shakes her head, attempting to clear it of the fog that seems to have gathered there and plants her hands firmly on his shoulders.

 

“Okay.”  She says as firmly as she can and he nods.

 

“Now with me Emma, breathe: In, fuck.  Out, shit.”  And she has to laugh through the pain because that way of counting suits her so much better.  She doesn’t miss the relief that shoots across his face.

 

The mantra of obscenities continues and gradually she takes back control of her body, becoming aware of the messages it’s sending her.  She ignores the nausea and the throbbing behind her eyes and instead focuses on the waves across her abdomen.  She has to stop her breathing as she bears down and Killian breaks with her, muttering words of encouragement before starting again.

 

Her memories of giving birth to Henry are fuzzy- adrenaline and hormones and time having obscured the details, but she knows it felt different to this, the contractions this time less intense but encompassing her entire being.  Every muscle she has goes into the effort of birthing.

**###Graphic Content Ahead###**

It takes five cycles of breathing and pushing before she feels it; something solid and wet and impossibly large sliding out of her and into the waiting towels.  She doesn’t look down; not yet.  She rocks back, sitting on her heels, knowing that the reprieve will be brief.  Killian clearly knows it too, steadying her movements with his arms by her side before reaching down with his hand to firmly rub her abdomen.

 

“What are you doing?”  She asks, roughly pushing his hand away.

 

“You know what.”  He answers before easily bypassing her objections to wrap his left arm firmly around her waist and massage her stomach with his hand.

 

He’s been this close to her before plenty of times, hell, they’ve kissed three times now- but this is something else.  Something much more intimate.  He’s caring for her, for her body and that’s much more intimidating than physical proximity.

 

As the afterbirth contractions hit her she doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around his neck, leaning her forehead on his shoulder and taking the comfort he offers as she reaches down to pull on the cord between her legs, groaning at the sensation of the placenta leaving her body.

 

Then it’s over.  It’s finished.  The nausea and cramping are gone, replaced by exhaustion and a  dull ache around her nether region.

 

She doesn’t move, letting Killian hold her up in his arms, not confident in her ability to remain upright should she pull away.

 

It’s a good five minutes before she feels able to lift her head and instantly she finds a cup of water in front of her.  She drinks, feeling her body slowly regaining some of its strength.  Her knees begin to object to being folded beneath her and she shifts slightly, pulling away from Hook’s embrace.

 

“Right.”  He says as he stands.  “I’m just going to find a way to heat some of this water for us.”  It takes her a minute to realise why they need warm water: they’re both covered in blood and bodily fluids she really doesn’t want to think about.  There’s still one more thing she has to do before she cleans up though.

 

The foetus lies in the middle of the rags, a dark almost purple against the red blood surrounding it.  There’s no denying what it is: arms and legs formed, head and closed eyes clearly visible.  She picks it up, surprised at the solid weight, and lets it lie in her palm for a second.  It’s not a monkey.

 

“Emma?”  Killian’s voice is soft and concerned and she looks up to meet his cautious eyes.

 

“Can you pass me that knife?”  She motions to the sideboard and he nods.  She takes the offered blade and uses it to cut through the umbilical cord before placing the foetus in one of the still clean scraps of material laying to the side.  She wraps it carefully then hands it to Killian, who places it away from anything else.

**###End of graphic scene###**

There’s a small fire going and he’s managed to make the water warm enough to at least be bearable against her suddenly sensitive skin.  She washes down her arms and legs, knowing that only an hour long scrub in a modern shower is likely to make her feel clean again. 

They work in silence; cleaning and clearing and changing.  It’s not uncomfortable it’s just that there’s nothing more to be said.  Chatter doesn’t really seem appropriate for the situation. 

The t-shirt she left on beneath the tunic is ruined and she hesitates briefly before pulling it off, leaving her in just her bra.  She smirks at Killian’s flustered expression, deciding to enjoy his obvious attraction to her instead of brushing it off.

She does move into an alcove out of obvious sight before ripping the shirt and folding the cleanest part to insert into her panties as a makeshift pad.  That’s a level of intimacy she’s not sure she’ll ever be ready for.

Emma pulls on her jacket and zips up the front, grinning at the exaggerated pout he pulls, before surveying the vault again.  She feels undeniably more confident than when they first found themselves here, bolstered by the decision she followed through and Killian’s unwavering support.

“Killian?”  She calls to get his attention then picks up the swaddled bundle from the side board and crouches to where the wand of Rumpelstiltskin’s lies.  “Let’s go home.”  The smile that crosses his face is as bright as the light emitting from the wand and forming a portal in front of them.

“Yes, Love. Let’s.”

***

 

They step through the portal together and as the icy Maine air hits her she regrets not having more clothes on.  The portal closes behind them leaving the barn looking distinctly ordinary despite the markings still present on the floor.  The ringing of her cell echoes around the space and she nods to Killian to answer it.  They’ll have to talk to Rumpelstiltskin and work out whether they’ve had any effect on the timeline, but that can wait for a few minutes.

It’s dark outside the barn and the wind is sharp but she has something to do before returning to the town centre.  Determined, she finds her way through the snow and trees to the spot she’s looking for and picks up a sturdy looking branch.  The ground has been frozen and it takes her over ten minutes and a probable case of frostbite to finish her task.  Killian stands behind her, offering support without interfering, remaining silent as she digs the tiny grave.

She places the swaddled foetus into the ground before covering it again, compacting the earth and brushing dried leaves from the surrounding area over the top, concealing the spot from all.

“Emma?”  He asks as she stands and backs away.  She shakes her head, she doesn’t want him to ask her if she’s okay because right now she’s not sure of the answer.  But she knows that tomorrow she will be.

“I guess everyone’s still at Granny’s?”  She asks quietly and he nods.  “Well, what are we waiting for then?”

 

** 

 

She finds him sitting outside Granny’s alone, nursing a beer and a tight smile on his lips as she approaches.  She sits on the chair next to his and faces him.  He waits for her.  He always does.

 

“I wanted to thank you, Killian.”  She spurts out.  “For everything.”

 

“Everything?”

 

“If you hadn’t come back to help us with Henry, or fetched me from New York, or followed me through the portal-”

 

“It was the right thing to do.”  He interrupts, shaking his head in an attempt to negate his actions.

 

“No.  If you…”  She struggles with how to word what she’s feeling.  “I needed someone and you came for me.  There aren’t many people who would do the things you did.”

 

“Then they’re fools.”  He says it softly but firm, leaving no room for her to argue.

 

“And then in Gold’s vault…”

 

“Emma.  You don’t have to thank me.  I did what I did because I wanted to.  I want to be there for you, and I will be for as long as you’ll let me.”  She hears the question hidden in his words and she answers in kind.

 

“I’ll let you.”  The words are so quiet she wonders for a moment if he’s heard them before he surges forward and captures her lips with his.  He’s sure of himself and her reaction this time; no hesitation and a definite ease to his movements.  She lifts her hand to weave through his hair, not wanting him to pull away.  Not yet.  The feeling of his lips on hers is a balm to her soul; everything seems right and the moment stretches on forever.  She ignores the sound of the diner door swinging and clicking, the cars that pass by, the quiet giggle from the sidewalk.  Even when he breaks the kiss to run his thumb over her bottom lip and lean his forehead against hers.  The smile in his eyes is the brightest thing she’s ever seen and she isn’t sure hers doesn’t match.

 

“Emma,” he breathes against her lips, still not pulling back.  “I’m here for whatever you need.”

 

“Right now,” she replies, “I don’t need anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those that made it this far, thanks for reading.  
> Follow me on tumblr @forestiyari


End file.
